palace of the governor.  Everything in the settlement is new, and everything is built on the scale of a city, and with the idea of accommodating a great number of people.  Hotels and cafes, better than any one finds in the older settlements along the coast, are arranged on the water-front, and there is a church capable of seating the entire white population at one time.  If the place is to grow, it can do so only through trade, and when trade really comes all these palaces and cafes and barracks which occupy the entire water-front will have to be pushed back to make way for warehouses and custom-house sheds.  At present it is populated only by officials, and, I believe, twelve white women.

 [Illustration:  The Late Sultan of Zanzibar in His State Carriage.]

You feel that it is an experiment, that it has been sent out like a box of children’s building blocks, and set up carefully on this beautiful harbor.  All that Dar Es Salaam needs now is trade and emigrants.  At present it is a show place, and might be exhibited at a world’s fair as an example of a model village.

In writing of Zanzibar I am embarrassed by the knowledge that I am not an unprejudiced witness.  I fell in love with Zanzibar at first sight, and the more I saw of it the more I wanted to take my luggage out of the ship’s hold and cable to my friends to try and have me made Vice-Consul to Zanzibar through all succeeding administrations.

Zanzibar runs back abruptly from a white beach in a succession of high white walls.  It glistens and glares, and dazzles you; the sand at your feet is white, the city itself is white, the robes of the people are white.  It has no public landing-pier.  Your rowboat is run ashore on a white shelving beach, and you face an impenetrable mass of white walls.  The blue waters are behind you, the lofty fortress-like facade before you, and a strip of white sand is at your feet.

And while you are wondering where this hidden city may be, a kind resident takes you by the hand and pilots you through a narrow crack in the rampart, along a twisting fissure between white-washed walls where the sun cannot reach, past great black doorways of carved oak, and out suddenly into the light and laughter and roar of Zanzibar.

In the narrow streets are all the colors of the Orient, gorgeous, unshaded, and violent; cobalt blue, greens, and reds on framework, windows, and doorways; red and yellow in the awnings and curtains of the bazaars, and orange and black, red and white, yellow, dark blue, and purple, in the long shawls of the women.  It is the busiest, and the brightest and richest in color of all the ports along the East African coast.  Were it not for its narrow streets and its towering walls it would be a place of perpetual sunshine.  Everybody is either actively busy, or contentedly idle.  It is all movement, noise, and glitter, everyone is telling everyone else to make way before him; the Indian merchants beseech you from the open